Rose of Legend
by libertiny89
Summary: Just a little reimagining of the Rose of Remembrance quest in Witcher 2.


A/N - I've always wondered why there isn't more Witcher fanfic - the characters are amazing and there's just so much potential! Get on board people =) I hope you enjoy this little one-shot. Please note that this is the anti-Triss/Geralt version of the scene (aka, no bath scene!)

Disclaimer - I own nothing

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Everyone in his unit knew of the rose—pink and luscious, a rose of elven legend. It always ended up wherever they made camp. Their leader knew of their curiosity but remained silent. He would never tell of how it came to be in his possession. He would never tell of how he relived the moment every day.

 ** _*One month earlier*_**

"It's just a story, Geralt."

As a royal advisor, Triss Merigold was used to being diplomatic for the sake of peace. Diplomacy, she told herself, not only kept the peace but also got the results. But now, standing alone in the elven ruins of Flotsam's forest, Triss struggled with the realisation that this time diplomacy had failed her. The sharp twisting feeling in her stomach was only bearable next to her sense of complete abandonment.

How could she have made herself so _vulnerable_! She should of just collected the rose and left. Why did she have to indulge in some romantic elven fairytale? Did she actually believe the Witcher's heart belonged to her?

His words played over and over in her head. _That's not fair_ …

Triss inhaled sharply as she relived the moment. _It was all just a stupid fantasy_.

She had taken the rose anyway, of course. It would wilt in her possession—unworthy as she was—but she would keep her promise to help Geralt restore his memory. And she knew what would happen once it was restored. She knew who would come back. Triss frowned, finally confirming the doubt that had always plagued her. Yennefer had never really left.

A rustle in the bushes caught her attention and she tensed. More Scoia'tael? Geralt had managed to get rid of the first lot peacefully but he would be back in Flotsam by now. The elves seemed to have a begrudging respect for him. Triss couldn't say the same about herself. She'd have preferred a monster. At least they were predictable.

A voice spoke, low and familiar. Triss kept her eyes to the ground.

"You're not welcome here, sorceress." He spat the last word with a venom peculiar to him. Triss was often on the receiving end of snide remarks and it angered her how he effortlessly surpassed them all with one word.

She waited patiently for him to show himself. And he would, eventually. If her previous encounter with the elf taught her anything it was that he delighted in confrontation. Triss would indulge him for now.

"I should have you killed," he drawled. She gritted her teeth, knowing she wouldn't be able to stay quiet for long.

She heard the soft clink of armour and lifted her gaze. Iorveth stood before her clothed in an ensemble of those he'd murdered, Roche's Blue Stripes emblem yet to be attached. She felt disgusted at the thought. A voice in her head reminded her of all those _she_ had killed. Many deserving death…many not. Triss let it drop.

Iorveth took a step towards her. He knew she wouldn't move. _Too proud_ , he thought, _even without the vatt'ghern to hide behind._

"Perhaps I should kill you myself…" he trailed off as if expecting a reaction. Triss noticed his jaw clench when she gave him nothing. Despite her discomfort, she wanted to laugh. _Men._ The silence stretched on and Iorveth studied her intently. She made sure not to falter under his scrutiny. What conclusions was he coming to? Unfavourable ones, no doubt. When he glanced at the rose Triss felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She tightened her grip around the delicate stem. The silence was becoming unbearable. She needed to leave. She needed to be away from him.

Iorveth snapped his eye up to hers, a small smirk playing on his lips. Triss's body tingled—that horrible mixture of heat and pins and needles. _He knows_ , she thought, _he saw and heard everything!_ She felt mortified. And furious. At Geralt, Flotsam, the smug elf in front of her…at _herself_. Iorveth interrupted her thoughts.

"Long has Flotsam's forest been bereft of love." He gestured around them theatrically. Triss almost snorted. Geralt had called him "grandiose" and she was starting to agree.

"How fortunate you two came along when you did," he drawled as he stared at her steadily, goading her on.

It took every inch of willpower for Triss not to set him on fire where he stood. There were undoubtedly numerous Scoia'tael hiding in the trees with their bows drawn ready to shoot her on command. Without them she'd be able to kill him, of this she was certain. She frowned. Why was she being so hard on herself when it was _he_ who needed an entourage of elf-lackeys to watch over him? _Brave, fearsome Iorveth._

Triss gave him an inquisitive look. Iorveth, realising how futile it was to try and provoke the redhead, remained impassive. For some reason unbeknownst to him, he _allowed_ her to look. Curiosity as to what she might see, perhaps? He ignored the thought.

Triss was happy to let the silence drift on since it was now on her terms. The elf _was_ fearsome. And intimidating. Was he brave? If brave meant to continue fighting for a lost cause then, yes, he was brave. She remembered what he had said when they'd encountered him outside Flotsam. _No one will grant us our freedom. We must win it for ourselves!_ Often, in times of solitude, she would think the very same thing for the mages. For herself. She would then scold herself for such selfish thoughts.

Was it selfish, though? To want freedom in a world where one could not even enter an inn without receiving those malicious whisperings and hostile glares? _Mages could not be trusted._

And then she felt it. It hit her like a punch to the gut. That unwelcome, disorienting feeling of empathy. A moment ago she wished to set the elf alight and now she felt…it wasn't pity, she could never pity Iorveth. Nor would he let her live if she did. _Too proud_ , she thought.

Triss found herself thinking of Roche. _Murderer of women and children_ , Iorveth had said. Fearsome, no doubt, and brave. Dangerous, charismatic, ruthless. The two of them had a lot in common and she was convinced they both knew this. Deep down, they hated each other because they hated what they themselves had become. They both fought for a cause that even they had lost sight of but they never would continue nevertheless. Whatever the cause was or had come to be, they never lost the passion to fight for what they believed in. Their people relied on them to _never_ lose the passion.

Triss was envious of the loyalty the two leaders commanded. Rarely could mages come together without being suspected of concocting some kind of devious plan. And she could hardly imagine mages being content with residing in the forest like the Scoia'tael. Thus it became a case of one looks out for oneself. Mages find their own way. Even the Lodge was fractured. She thought briefly of Geralt and wondered if she had his loyalty. She realised painfully how dependent on him she had become. She asked herself a question she'd tried to avoid: did he deserve _her_ loyalty?

Triss dropped her gaze and held the rose up between her and Iorveth. She would restore Geralt's memory, or she would at least make a solid attempt. But she also made another promise, one closer to heart. She would go her own way, as all mages do, but with the sole focus of uniting the mages of the Upper Kingdoms. No longer would they be relegated to simple advisors of men. No longer would they be hated and mistreated by the people. Together, _they_ would find _their_ own way.

Iorveth watched as Triss stepped back a few paces. He almost made a move to keep her from escaping. Why, he did not know. And he almost let slip his surprise when she picked a second rose. He threw her a contemptuous look as she made her way back to him and offered the rose. For once in his centuries-long life Iorveth found himself lost for words. Part of him—a large part of him—wanted to snap her delicate little wrist. Finally, Triss spoke.

"You won't ever know what you've done," she said and placed the rose in his palm. Iorveth couldn't help but flinch slightly at her touch. It was warm and soft, not something he was used to. Triss gave him a small smile and wrapped his fingers around the stem.

"Thank you."


End file.
